


Eye Of The Hurricane

by LipstickAndWhiskey (CopperMarigolds)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Fluffy sweetness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 04:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10609359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperMarigolds/pseuds/LipstickAndWhiskey
Summary: Your life was a whirlwind, yet you find a calm in the middle of your storm.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at 2am and it just- it felt good. It was a practice in using no dialogue, and it’s really freeing not having to worry over that. A nice change of pace.

([x](http://sensitivehandsomeactionman.tumblr.com/post/159030055611))

A hurricane. That’s what your life had always been. It was a whirlwind of people, places and monsters. A nomad all your life, you’d come to embrace the craziness of your life. It was the still, quiet moments that you never knew what to do with. Prior to Dean Winchester, you’d never had them.

The first time was after a bad hunt. Dean had thrown himself in front of you, taking the brunt of a werewolf attack. Sam shot it shortly afterward, but Dean was left bloody on the floor. There was so much blood. You knew how to handle this. Blood and pain you knew. The way Dean watched you though- you didn’t know what to do with that.

The next time was at a circus. The three of you had never been to a circus before- at least only in a non-work capacity. Dean managed to convince you with the promise of cotton candy, though nothing could convince Sam to join. He refused to even look at the grounds from afar, lest he lay eyes upon a clown.

Dean grabbed your hand, wading through the crowd to what he deemed to be the best seats. From the moment you sat down to the time you left though, he has yet to let his hand leave yours for more than a minute. You didn’t question it, rather enjoying the rough glide of his hand each time he picked yours up again. It was nice. You didn’t know what to do with it, but it was nice.

After that, you were nearly inseparable. Dean was always at your side, always in contact with you. Whether it was his knee pressed to yours or a hand at the small of your back, he was always touching you. You found inner stillness at the contact- mind clear and sharp. You still had no idea what to do with it, yet you leaned into the touch each time.

You’d lost it one day. Completely lost it on a witness. Dean had to pull you away, telling you to calm down. All you could see was red. It wasn’t until Dean pulled you into his arms that you’d broken down. He shushed and talked aimlessly at length as you calmed, brushing his hand over your hair and smoothing circles onto your back. It was as if he was the only one who could invoke such a calmness from you.

You explained to him. You let him in. You told him how the witness triggered something you longed to forget. He let you say your piece, never interrupting. It was as if he knew you needed to say it. To tell someone. He said nothing, knowing that you didn’t need him to fix it or tell you he was sorry. He just held you. That day you felt lighter than you had in years.

The calm came daily soon afterward. It was there when you sat on motel beds researching, legs slung over Dean’s. It was there when you ate breakfast in some greasy diner in the midwest, soft smiles exchanged over waffles and bacon. It was there in the moments when Sam took over driving and Dean flung himself into the backseat with you, head comfortably in your lap as you played with his hair. It was even there when Dean said goodnight, walking backwards to his room as you waved at him from your door.

It was late one night when you couldn’t fall asleep that it happened. You’d tossed and turned, covers strewn across your bed as you kicked at them. You couldn’t get comfortable. You couldn’t help but think that Dean was sound asleep, snoring lightly with his face pressed into his pillow. Or maybe he wasn’t? All you knew was that you had to check. His intermittent nightmares worried you. He never fessed up to having them, though you’d witnessed a few firsthand.

Bare feet nearly soundless on the hardwood floors, you creeped over to deans room. You knocked quietly, and at no answer you peeked in. Face soft with sleep, you hated the idea of waking him. He had other ideas it seemed, eyes fluttering open and quickly observing you in his doorway.

He beckoned you in, and despite your hesitancy, you sat next to him. He asked all the normal questions like “what are you doing up?” And “can’t get to sleep?” until eventually sliding over and pulling you under the covers with him.

He held you, your ear pressed over his heart and the calm returned. His fingers threaded through your hair, calloused fingertips lulling you to sleep. He stopped and your eyes flicked open, head tilting back to meet his eyes. Your eyes flitted closed again though as his lips pressed to yours, pillowy soft and infinitely gentle. He kissed you like he was memorizing you, long and languid until you had to pull apart huffing.

You never needed words, the pair of you. It was in the quiet moments that you understood each other perfectly. Your life may have been a hurricane, but he was the calm center.


End file.
